


golden boys

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Feminisation, Gen, M/M, physical illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in Kansas, the Winchester boys are growing up. We're not sure when. It isn't like it matters, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	golden boys

**Author's Note:**

> hey, i don't write for this fandom anymore, but i found this on an old livejournal, and i think i might as well upload it.

Mary has something locked inside her chest that keeps edges soft and her smile warm.

It gnaws on her ribcage, and grips her heart like a vice, but as long it does, blood is flush in her veins, and her kindness is never jaded. It’s settled there, like a hermit, never leaving, and Mary doesn’t think it ever will. It’s part of who she is.

She stands at the kitchen counter, weathered hands working dough into a smooth putty. Dean and Sam run around outside on the lawn, a baseball being tossed to and fro.

Sometimes she feels old. She is old, of course, old as the grandfather clock at the end of the hall on the second floor, and the baby shoes in the wardrobe in the attic. But sometimes she feels like the different kind of old, cracks where her veins are, laughter lines cutting into her skin like a drought. The little monster in her chest writhes and twists and screams, and rolls around in a harsh, grounding agony. It makes her arms quiver, and her skin pale, and sometimes she lies in bed, overcome by anger while her two little boys stand outside the door and knock repeatedly, with worry intercepting their usual cheery voices.

And sometimes she lies on the sofa, and the petulant child clutching at her heart is asleep, with warm blood streaming down it’s cheeks, but sleeping nonetheless. Her skin feels like a shore, and perhaps she is drowning, but she will never sink.

The clicking of the counter on the oven soothes her. Planting her hands on the counter, she tips her had forward and lets out a breath. Dean walks in, and she spins quickly, air tapping on her teeth. She rushes forward and lifts him into a solid hug. The young one looks confused, but then he hugs her back and smiles. “I love you, Mom.”

 

Sam likes dancing, apparently: Mary had thought it would pass when he was four, but then he was five and six and seven, and he was twirling in his room still, and he’d caught her leaning in the doorway with a knowing smile. Maybe it was just a phase, but she embraced it. Within the next few days, Sam was enrolled in an after-school class for beginners.

He didn’t smile when he danced, but he ran his hand through his hair shyly when the teacher complimented him, and he bit his thumb when he tripped in the middle of a demi-plié. And Jessica started visiting for playdates after that, with her ballet bag, and a head full of hair that Mary brushed like the girl was her own daughter.

Dean asked questions of course—why did Sam wear make-up, and why did he wear skirts, and why did he do ballet, because wasn’t that for girls? And Mary had pressed a kiss to his forehead, and told him it was because Sam liked it, and that there wasn’t a thing in the world meant for just boys or girls or anyone else.

 

Mary knows her boys are different. She always has, started to realize it when she saw they blew kisses to teachers and seniors alike, and when they drew on their walls in chalk, leaving murals depicting balls and ballerinas and queens and princes, crooked fingers and awkward, toothy smiles.  
It’s the kind of different that makes them vibrant.

 

She lulls them to sleep with stories of knights in glistening armor, and dragons, but she tailors every word to their interests. (“What are girl knights called, Sam?” “I don’t know, Mom. Knightresses?” “Dean says there aren’t any girl knights—” “—It’s not like I don’t want girl knights, shut up!” “Dean!”)  
They sleep like angels, Sam with his arms crossed over his chest, and Dean with his hands tangled together above his head.

And they wake like angels. And they walk like angels. And they live like angels.

 

She doesn’t take them to mass until Sam is twelve, Dean sixteen. Sam holds her hand the whole way there, because the little one knows that perhaps they won’t like his blush, and perhaps they won’t like his brother. Although he imagines they will, because everyone likes Dean.

The church in their Kansas town is beautiful, with a flourishing garden all around, white walls and blinding mosaics. The boys are quiet during the service, drinking in every word, and they mouth the prayers like they taste like raspberries. Sam is at the end of the bench, and Dean sits next to a boy who looks his age, with dark hair and soft eyes, who keeps glancing curiously at all three of them. Mary thinks he probably comes here often. He murmurs hymns, articulate and clear but also humble, without even reading the passage in front of him. Dean seems to notice him too, going by how he narrows his eyes, like he does when he’s confused.

 

“What happens when boys like boys?” The words tumble out of Sam’s mouth like pebbles, and Mary isn’t really surprised. “Does something happen?”

“Well, sometimes they fall in love.”

“For how long?”

Mary pauses. “Sometimes for a few moments. Sometimes forever.”

He looks worried. There’s a bitter taste in Mary’s mouth for the rest of the day: she doesn’t want her boys falling in love too fast. They’ve always loved so much, Dean especially. Dean takes holds of someone after months, and then he is angry, and then he is furiously, furiously in love.

 

Dean sings. Dean hums hymns when he’s doing homework in his room, and he says prayers when he draws on his walls, with a stick of chalk that powders his fingers, sometimes even eyes the rosary Mary has on her bedside table. But he’s not religious, he says.

 

They go to church on Sundays. And Mondays, and Tuesdays, and all of the other days of the week.

Dean adores it, and Sam talks to the priest after the services, and even joins the choir.

The boy with soft eyes and dark hair befriends the pair of them. After mass, they sit in a circle in the garden outback, behind the church, and when Mary comes to check on them, they are giggling and pushing each other and Mary notices when Dean is drawn to the rosary the boy has on his wrist.

 

The creature in her chest comes alive one night, when she is up late fixing the boiler in the basement. She begins to breathe quickly, and her chest feels like it is being turned inside out, ice flaring up in the veins in her shoulders. Maybe she is dying, should she wake up the boys? But she has a feeling that if she is dying, they should be asleep when it happens, and she walks outside, praying to the Lord to keep an angel watching over them, one angel, because all of them is not enough. One angel, before she dies, for her baby boys.

 

She isn’t dead the next day, instead sitting on the bench in her garden, with a cup of tea she does not intend to drink. Today the church boy is visiting for the first time, and the boys have been all over the place, spraying and dusting and singing until she can practically taste hymns when she pokes her head inside. She sees him approaching, and she waves at him, standing to greet him. Her thighs sting, something hating and burning in them, but she ignores them.

“Good morning, Mrs. Winchester,” he smiles, looking for all in the world like the son of the priest he is. “Are you alright?” He frowns.  
“I’m fine, dear, come inside. They’re raging war against the dust in there, so be careful.”

He laughs. Mary learns his name is Castiel, and he smells like sunblock according to Sam, and the flowers in the church garden according to Dean. They both agree on peaches.

 

Dean kisses the church boy when they are sitting side by side on his bed, must have, because they go in laughing, and they come out flustered. And after that, they are kissing behind the church, and after school, and whenever Sam comes out of Dean’s room looking offended. Mary laughs, and scoops the scowling boy up, and carries him around on her shoulders while she bakes a pie. He is too old for it, apparently, and so is she, so he usually comes down after several minutes.

Castiel is a boy who Mary doesn’t mind Dean falling in love with. He has perpetually mussed hair and bright, blue eyes, and sometimes Mary sees Dean staring, and then he crumples down and ducks his head into his arms when he thinks she isn’t looking. But Castiel sees, and looks flustered, and she can hardly stomach their blushy smiles silently, so she leaves them with food, and leaves them, trying not to gush.

 

Sam still dances, and he’s better than ever before now, and he can apply eyeliner like he was born with the finesse. Sometimes when Jessica has slept over, she gets him to do it for her, because it’s so hard and Sam’s so good at it. Dean kisses Castiel when he visits, and when he leaves, and memorizes a lot of prayers himself. He starts wearing a rosary around his ankle, fiddling with it when he’s nervous.

 

The monster around Mary’s heart grows. It fills her chest, and sometimes she coughs blood in the mornings, because it claws at her lungs and makes it harder to breathe with every passing day.

 

The Lord seems to have sent down Castiel, who looks after them, and reprimands them when they blaspheme, and laughs when they tease his hair, pulling at it with their clumsy fingers. He carries Sammy around, telling him stories about knightresses and princesses, weaving stories Mary can no longer tell for fear she will start coughing up blood in front of her boys. Her heart goes out for the angel on Earth, who is confused when she hugs him and holds him like a son of her own.

 

Jessica sees her last. Maybe it is fitting. She holds her, strokes her back, not looking scared at all just for Mary’s sake, and soothes her. Mary is gardening, and then she is coughing, and Jessica is whispering.

 

“You did so well, Mary. Dean’s gonna be happy, Sam’s gonna be happy. You made your sons the happiest boys in the world, and they fell in love in every way, and it was wonderful. I love them so much, and so does Castiel, because they’re incredible, Mary, you did a better job than the Lord could have ever hoped for.” Mary cries, still, holding onto the girl, slumping down on the bench that Jessica helps her to. “Mama Winchester, that thing in your heart, that’s the Lord telling you it’s time to leave them. You’re going to heaven now, and you’ll be with all your children. And they’ll be safe down here, you’ll get to see them when they come up too.”

Mary loves her. And she is in heaven. And she still loves her, loves the angel who came to watch her go, when she is up in heaven, with that nasty little monster in her chest watching over her.


End file.
